A Clash of Cultures and Subsequent Bureaucratic Nonsense

When I was eighteen years old and first moved to the town of Independence, Missouri, I got here in my '57 Chevy. I had recently bought it from a guy who lived in the Santa Cruz Mountains, just west of Los Altos, (if I recall correctly) for $300.  It was a rare model, something called a Sedan Delivery, which was more or less a two-door station wagon, only with panel sides rather than the rear windows, and a rear tail gate that was one piece, hinging from the top. It had a blown engine, though I was assured it was just a blown head gasket and would be repairable.

That turned out not to be the case--it was not repairable--but I put another engine in it and eventually drove it from the Bay Area to Kansas City.

But the problem was I never registered the car in California. Per law, I had the "pink slip," which was the title, and it was signed over to me, but for much of the time I had the car while in California, it didn't run. Therefore, I couldn't get it inspected, and I couldn't get it titled. Instead, I got a 60-day emergency operating permit, and planned on getting a certificate of non-operation for the period that I was working on it. Bottom line, I never got it registered by the time I left the state, and I had planned on simply getting it registered in Missouri once I established residency there. So, off I go, with a bunch of documentation and DMV forms and assorted crap jammed into the glove box.

I got to Independence and pretty much forgot about all that stuff. I had the idea vaguely in mind that I would take care of it, but time passes differently when you're eighteen, I suppose. At any rate, one fine day I was driving through the town of Raytown, which was adjacent to Independence and known for its strict law enforcement. Let's say, to be polite, that I knew a few people who told me that they "never go through Raytown." Just avoid it. But, anyway, I'm eighteen, like I said. So, I had expired California license plates on my car, of course. They were the originals from when the car was new, as a matter of fact, that being how it worked in California. So here's a long haired kid driving this sort of "hippy wagon" looking vehicle, with expired tags, from California, no less, therefore probably jam packed in the back with smuggled marijuana. A Raytown police officer pulls me over, and in the ensuing conversation I point out that I have this here "emergency operating permit," as well as this here California driver's license, and he points out that both are expired.

Oops.

Later that same day, I'm in a holding cell at the Raytown police station, staring blankly through the black iron bars out at the small room where three policemen stand around a wooden desk with all my paperwork spread out over it, and they can't figure it out.  No one can. Not even in California, not in Missouri, and certainly not in Raytown. As I watch, phone calls are made, and quiet whispered discussions take place until finally, after about two hours, I am released and given a ticket. It is something called an "equipment violation," so, technically, I just have to correct the problem and show up at a highway patrol station to have it checked off and then I am all set.

Never mind that it's not really equipment we're talking about, but, whatever.  I am to go and get my car inspected and registered in ten days and show the highway patrol.

This is where the fun begins. I do get the car inspected, and I get my Independence City Sticker, which is a little sticker they sell you for $25 that signifies nothing, and does nothing, get my property tax waiver and then I go to the DMV. I produce the California title, the "pink slip" with the seller's signature. So far so good.

I am told it needs to be notarized. In Missouri, a title signed over like that needs to be notarized.  I point out that in California, that was not required, that all I needed was the signature. I'm told that it still needs to be notarized. There are two problems here. 1.) A notary needs to witness the document being signed, which of course means it's too late--already signed, 1,500 miles away, and 2.) the guy I bought the car from is now in the army, in Viet Nam, 8,000 miles away.

But, I didn't know about the notary procedure, so off I go to find a notary. Soon I am educated, and I return to the DMV office. I wait in line. I get to speak to a nice lady, and I explain that no one would notarize the title because, as I said, it's already been signed. She says to me, in a hushed tone, "There's a guy down on 23rd street, behind the laundry right down there . . . he'll notarize anything."

I go there. I see the guy, ask him to notarize my title, and he says, hell no, he can't do that. It's already been signed! I am too young and dumb to understand what I was supposed to do next, so I storm out of there and return to the DMV office. I stand in the middle of the room, and ask in a loud voice to speak to whoever the highest authority in the building was, that I am wondering if I should just push my car off a cliff, or what. Yeah I really did say that. They were probably all just a little frightened.

The nice lady quickly motions me over to her desk. "Let me see the title." she says. I hand it to her. She takes out a blank sheet of paper and writes out a bill of sale. She studies the signature of my seller on the pink slip, then does a fair job of forging it onto the bill of sale. She folds the paper up again and again until it is a small square, rubs it against her leg so it looks aged, unfolds it, then opens her desk drawer, looks to her left and to her right, takes out a notary stamp and notarized both the bill of sale and the title, and then processes it all and registers my car.

I take my new Missouri license plates and quickly screw them onto the front and back of my car, sort of victorious, I think, but only conditionally.